


Christmas!

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6844696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor





	Christmas!

“Odamens!” Ian exclaimed in excitement as his mother appeared in the sitting room with a flimsy pasteboard box. 

“Or-na-ments,” Sherlock corrected reflexively, frowning in concentration. He was on his laptop, researching various philosophies of Christmas tree decorating. How could there be so many divergent opinions on such a trivial subject?

“I thought I’d never find them, Captain,” Mary declared to her husband, who was lying under the Christmas tree adjusting the stand. “Your old room has become a wilderness of storage boxes.”

“Yet they are apparently all vitally important,” John grumbled, scooting out from under the fragrant pine and struggling to his feet. Getting Sherlock’s flat ready for Christmas had become an annual family project—one which Sherlock had until now treated as a spectator sport. Now he was faced with the task of decorating his own evergreen as a method of occupying the youngest Watson’s attention whilst his parents went to accomplish some mysterious Christmas errands on their own.

“I’ll string the lights and then off we go,” Mary told him cheerfully. It seemed she did not trust him with this delicate task. She continued to issue instructions as she carefully wound the fairy lights around the branches. Sherlock paid her no attention. “Mrs. Hudson is downstairs baking up a storm. She’ll be bringing up gingerbread and hot cocoa for you in a bit,” she concluded her litany and plugged the last string of lights into the wall. 

“Yay! The tree!” Ian clapped his hands, jumping up and down with glee. Then he dropped to his knees and became so engrossed in digging through the box of “odamens” that he barely noted his parents’ departure. The first Christmas Mary had spent with Sherlock and John, she had put up a tree in 221b and bought for it some tasteful, delicate, Victorian-style ornaments of red and green and gold. They had, she claimed, looked elegant in his sitting room. The next Christmas, having been informed that Sherlock had used the expensive ornaments in an important experiment (“It was for a case!”), Mary had chuckled with amused exasperation and purchased the cheapest plastic decorations she could find, and these had been the adornments for every tree since. As a result, he was confident that while Ian might accidentally break the ill-made ornaments as he rummaged through them, he would not be able to hurt himself on them. Secretly, Sherlock hoped Ian would smash a great number of the hideous things.

He sighed and set to work winding garland over the branches. This was not his area. The aesthetic desirability of keeping a dying evergreen in his flat, sticky with resin and dropping needles onto his rug, filling the room with citrus scents, was beyond his comprehension. He had never in his life decorated a Christmas tree. As a child, trees just seemed to happen as he slept—much like his morning cuppa. As an adult, he had never seen the need for such a thing. But through the years of their association, the Watsons had insisted it was needful; and now apparently it was a necessary part of the child-minding experience. Sherlock was determined to get this child-minding thing right. He applied garland with grim determination.

“See if you can find the star for the top,” he instructed Ian over his shoulder. “I’ll put that on next.” 

“I foun’ it,” Ian declared triumphantly, staggering to his feet. And then was heard a tiny gasp and a great crunch; the star flew past Sherlock’s head and bounced off the tree.

Sherlock turned to see his little nephew lying prone over the flattened box of decorations. “Ian, are you all right?” he asked in concern, hurrying to the child’s side. He picked the little boy up out of the box of smashed and mangled ornaments and set him on his feet.

“Ow,” Ian stated earnestly in a hushed voice.

“Are you injured? Where does it hurt?” his uncle demanded. Two little hands were held out, reddened palms up, the tiny fingers splayed like baby starfish. Kneeling before the child, Sherlock gently felt the bird-like bones and determined that nothing was broken. Apparently Ian had caught himself on the floor with a slap that left his hands stinging but otherwise undamaged.

“You’re all right,” Sherlock assured the boy. 

Ian was not convinced. “Mummy kisses my boo-boos,” he informed Sherlock soberly.

The genius’ mind boggled. “Why would she do that?” he asked, bewildered.

“She kisses ‘em and say ‘aww better,’” the child explained.

Sherlock’s left eyebrow lifted. “Are you implying that your mother’s saliva has some sort of medicinal properties?”

Ian ignored his uncle’s sarcasm. “Dad say Mummy’s kisses are magis,” he explained seriously.

Magis? Hmm, Magi: ancient Persian followers of Zoroastrianism; also known as astrologers, sages, or ‘wise men’; frequently and incorrectly identified as oriental kings; associated with the Christian celebration of Christmas, as members of their sect were recorded as being early visitors to the Christ-child’s birthplace, bringing gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. None of this information seems applicable to Mary Watson; although she is, in fact, one of the wisest persons I’ve ever known, she is not Persian, not a Zoroastrian, and has as far as I’m aware never studied astronomy. . . . .

Sherlock noted Ian staring at him in stunned silence and became suddenly aware that he had been speaking his deductions aloud. 

“Nonsense,” Ian sternly denounced his uncle’s stream of thought. Sherlock’s jaw dropped in astonishment. But then the truth hit him.

“Oh! You meant ‘magic’, didn’t you, not ‘Magi’,” he exclaimed. “Well, that was a natural mistake—the words are very similar. You’re saying your mum can magically heal your injuries with a kiss.” An odd lie to tell a child, he mused; and Mary was known for her deliberate integrity. Why spin such a yarn to deceive her own offspring? And why would John, the most intrinsically honest person Sherlock knew, go along with such deception?

And yet . . . . Although reserved in most situations, Mary was very generous with her affectionate gestures towards those close to her. She had given Sherlock many a kiss through the years—on his cheek, on his temple, on the top of his head. Come to think of it, she had habitually kissed his bruised and swollen knuckles whenever he had been involved in a fistfight, whilst crooning, as Ian described, ‘All better,’ in a cheerful, reassuring tone. And Sherlock had to admit that, inexplicably, her sisterly kisses actually did make him feel better. Frozen in place, still kneeling on the floor, he began to plan out experiments that might deconstruct and properly identify the chemistry involved in this phenomena.

“Unco Sh’ock! Unco Sh’ock!” Little hands patting his face roused Sherlock from his reverie. “Stop thinking!”

He retreated from his mind palace and smiled fondly at his persistent nephew. “My apologies. You have my full attention.”

“You do it, Sh’ock,” Ian commanded, holding out his hands insistently.

Sherlock was aghast. “Me? Oh, Ian, I’m not your mum. I truly doubt my kisses would work.”

The boy’s countenance fell, looking forlornly into the box of smashed Christmas revelry and sighing. And Sherlock suddenly understood. This wasn’t a matter of chemistry, or of magic. Kisses made one feel better because they were an assurance that one is loved and cared for under any circumstances. Ian needed this assurance now, and Sherlock was expected to supply it. And Sherlock felt he was able to supply this assurance; for the truth was, he regarded this tiny Watson with a fiercely extravagant and completely unreasoning affection.

“Well, we can give it a try,” he smiled gently. He took the little hands in his and kissed the palms of each.

“Say ‘aw better’,” Ian instructed.

“All better,” Sherlock said obediently. And it seemed he did have the magic, for he was rewarded with a sunny smile that lit the room more brightly than the Christmas tree had done.

"But, the odamens!" Ian said ruefully, again regarding the ruined box of decorations.

“Never mind those,” Sherlock scoffed. “We didn’t want to use those anyway. According to my research, the best decorations are hand-made. In the past, people used whatever materials they had on hand to adorn their trees.”

“I can help!” Ian cried in excitement, bouncing like a puppy in his eagerness.

“I’m counting on it!” Sherlock agreed. “I can’t do this without you!”

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson was heard mounting the stairs, the divine scent of gingerbread wafting before her. “What on earth happened here?” she cried, setting her heavy tray of gingerbread men and mugs of cocoa on the coffee table.

“Nothing happened,” Sherlock asserted firmly. He was watching instructional videos concerning origami on YouTube. Ian was on his stomach on the floor, busily colouring shapes on a stack of printer paper. “Ian and I have simply decided to go another direction in decorating the tree this year.”

“I see,” Mrs. Hudson said wisely. “Well, in that case, perhaps I should go make up another batch of gingerbread men to hang on the tree.”

“Yay! Yay!” Ian agreed wholeheartedly. He had abandoned his work to munch gingerbread with great gusto. 

Mrs. Hudson soon had the mass of crushed ornaments cleared away and went back downstairs to bake. 

000

John and Mary returned hours later, exhausted but triumphant in their accomplished tasks. They dropped their many packages on the landing and entered Sherlock’s flat, to be immediately assailed by a very excited little boy.

“The tree, the tree!” He grabbed their hands and pulled them to fragrant pine in the corner, demanding their admiration. Sherlock, tending to the fireplace, watched surreptitiously, admittedly eager to note their reaction to his and Ian’s handiwork.

If ever a Christmas tree expressed the personalities of its owners, this one did. Ian’s cut-out, colourful shapes hung from strings, as did Sherlock’s origami swans, cranes, and occasional penguins. Ian’s attempts at snowflakes looked a bit like webs woven by inebriated spiders; and he had contributed his favourite toys to the cause: the tree was festooned with ambulances, police cars, coroner’s wagons and other emergency vehicles tied onto the branches with brightly coloured ribbons.

Sherlock had filled stoppered test tubes with coloured water and hung them from filament wires, carefully placing them near lights of the same colours. His rodent skull collection had been pressed into service as well, peering with festive grins from amongst the evergreen branches. Mrs. Hudson had done her bit, too. Knowing her boys so well, she had decorated some of her gingerbread men in prison stripes and some in pirate garb—complete with little eye patches and feathers in their hats.

“This is the most festively macabre Christmas tree I’ve ever seen,” John remarked dryly, helping himself to the gingerbread that remained on the serving tray. “It’s fantastic!”

“Unbelievable!” Mary agreed. “I love it! It’s perfect for 221B. You three did a wonderful job.”

And then the Chinese food Sherlock had ordered some time before was delivered to the door, and the little family settled around the crackling fire and dined together in the light of the loving Christmas tree. And there was peace on earth that night indeed.


End file.
